Grrrr!!: Sex Secrets of the Tiger Mother

Tiger Mother eat you up!!

Ahh, Tiger Mothers. We’ve all been bombarded by commentary on the Amy Chua bestseller “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother,” that “Chinese” parenting memoir where a careerist Yale professor bullies her kids into academic and extracurricular super performance: Days-long violin practice, verbal bullying, a depressingly elitist slap at the “losers” who are forced to go to Brown and UVA.

Which brings me back to a perfumed tale of the majestic east…my only encounter with a Tiger Mother. It makes me shudder…in both brain and loins.

I had finished coffee with my friend Chet near a local college campus. To clarify, this is not one of those “friends” that I’ve bonked and kept at arm’s length in a fuzzy, warm state of nostalgic sex-affection. He’s a true comrade in arms who, conversationally, puts the Plato in Platonic, a true gentleman-scholar. Over cappuccinos he even lamented the dire drought of pussy in his life. I responded with sage certainty, “You’ll get laid within a week or two, bud.” The male ego is tender and requires a dash of distaff nurturing occasionally.

The Tiger Mother Roars onto the Scene…

After a brief walk, discussing Heidegger and the Cocteau Twins, we sat down by the college music hall on a bench. I could hear the ferocious, amateurish sawing of a violin in a practice room as well as some genteel exhortations. Music lessons were in progress.

At that moment, as if cued by the desperate cacophony, she arrived, the Tiger Mother, the Beast from the East. A Volvo Cross Country with the bumper sticker “Number One” roared up and nearly demolished the landscaping. She emerged with unbridled ferocity.

“Damn Kids—they’re getting their violin lesson right now, under that incompetent Dr. Simmons!” She sat down next to us. “They can’t master the Perpetuum Mobile by Novacek!”

I interjected: “But…Simmons is the finest teacher at this college, from what I’ve heard. And Perpetuum Mobile is very difficult…”

“They’ll never be number one…they’ll go to lousy, crap school like William and Mary and work at Red Lobster…” The reflection trailed off into space and she seemed to pause in powerfully tense reflection, as if seeking to turn the adamantine wheel of fate and reverse her family’s failures.

An Indecent Proposal and a Losing Battle…

She then muttered, “I’m bored with you losers.” Reaching into her bag, she withdrew a series of tiles. “I have an idea…” she smiled. “I beat you in Mah Jong, and I blow your husband.”

I gasped, taken aback at the audacity of the idea and was about to deny Chet’s status as my true consort, when he touched my arm. He clearly wanted to let this bizarre scenario play itself out, and possibly get some tiger meat in the process.

Cryptic Chinese tiles flew across the bench. I’ll admit that we played awkwardly, and were quickly vanquished by the Tiger, who failed to acknowledge that a fourth player was required; perhaps her innate ferocity, her desperate fervor to win at any and all cost, had effectively summoned a fourth combatant. She brandished her winning hand and sneered.

“You are loser. Did you attend community college, or are you uneducated wench?”

I suppressed a mounting rage as I identified my alma mater.

I detected a Tiger smirk. “And is that school number one?”

Our eyes met, her tyger-pupils burning bright. “In several areas, I believe? But I don’t really follow ratings that much…”

The Tiger-Mother Pounces…

I heard an incredulous, mammalian snort in response, but her attentions had shifted to her prize, and she had pulled Chet into the bushes. I watched her rapaciously yank his trousers to the sodden earth, muttering “Tiger eat you. Eat you good.” Admirably, poor Chet actually seemed inspired by this display of feline braggadocio, and his c**k lay exposed and tumescent, a springbok trembling as it waited to be consumed by the Tiger Maw.

Our Dragon Lady took his rigid pee-pee into her mouth and inhaled with extraordinary force, as if she had been incarnated as an Oreck Pro Series vacuum, and here I witnessed her supreme aggression translated into peerless sexual energy, actually inspiring me to contemplate my recent achievements in the areas of the Masterly Blow: Could I pleasure a playmate with this level of ardent ferocity? Maybe there was something to this solemn “Chinese” pursuit of utter domination.

The Tiger-Mother Devours her Prey…

The mouth-frick didn’t last long: The flame that burns brightly is rapidly extinguished. I recall a memoir by Andre Gide, where he insists that he never feels satisfied unless he is literally drained to the last drop, where no perceptible store of jism remains. It usually took several partners in his case, but Chet was depleted in a single astonishing display of suction—I perceived a moonshot of man-sap erupt into the Tiger’s mouth, where its unearthly velocity forced her cheeks to splay momentarily outward, absorbing the semenic impact his mighty Tiger-gasm.

She swallowed the fluid prize proudly. “Yum. Tiger eat you up.” She patted his ass perfunctorily, as if she had never before attempted a true demonstration of affection. “You taste real, real good.” Somewhere an abundant load of Chet’s goo was progressing through the Tiger Mother’s digestive system, mixing with bile and proteases, a sloppy reminder of her oral super-achievement.

A violin continued to saw in the background. Elsewhere, the world was silent in deference to the powers of the Tiger.